Consequences
by irite
Summary: Companion piece to "Impact." This new century holds a lot of changes for Steve, including new diagnoses and new friends.


**This a companion piece to "Impact," specifically the third installment, and some things in here will make infinite times more sense if you read that first.**

**dysprositos, you are _wonderful_. I don't know where I would be without all of your support on this. Oh yeah, I do. Hyperventilating over the first draft. So, thank you. And also for making the awesome cover pic.**

**READERS: Check out dysprositos's "Collateral Damage" for some really incredible Tony and Steve angst.**

* * *

Steve hadn't ever had much of a routine in his life before he joined the army. Get up, draw for a while, eat, work, get beat up in alleys, see Bucky, sleep. No particular order, no sequence.

The army liked routines. So, Steve started settling into one.

Then, upheaval. He received the serum and immediately started feeling...different. Not just physically, but mentally.

He had to compartmentalize these feelings, though, because life on the road was not easily predictable. He tried to stick to a bedtime and got up at the same time every morning and ate the same breakfast, and this familiarity helped.

When he got in the field, any semblance of order was defenestrated. But that was acceptable, as Steve had a good group surrounding him. If things got too crazy in his head, he could go talk to one of the guys, and they would distract him.

Steve didn't want to admit that he had a problem. At the time, mental issues meant institutionalization. Steve couldn't do that to himself, but more importantly, he couldn't misrepresent his country that way.

He was starting to have trouble breathing when things didn't go exactly his way, and it didn't feel like asthma. Steve knew to take several deep breaths and relax when his chest started feeling tight, and that usually helped.

He knew that something was going to have to be done when the breathing difficulties started making it hard to sleep in whatever hellish foxhole they were inhabiting for the night. Perhaps Howard could help? The man was a genius, after all...

But his minor troubles were unimportant in the face of the war. When it came time for Steve to put the plane in the water, he was almost thankful that he wouldn't have to own up to being less of a man than the other soldiers.

* * *

Steve was not dead. He looked at his hands, held them in front of his face. Not dead, not dead, not dead.

He should be dead. He _intended_ to be dead.

He was torn away from this train of thought by the radio. Steve had attended this game. What were they playing at? Nobody replayed games over the wireless.

He took a better look around, serum enhanced eyes picking up on other inconsistencies.

The woman who came in to speak to him looked like a poor shade of his Peggy.

A farce. These people thought so little of him that they would playact?

Running outside, Steve was _stunned_. It looked like New York, like Times Square, but it _wasn't_.

Steve wasn't stupid. He knew that this must be the future, as damn weird as that sounded.

When the tall, dark-skinned man emerged from the automobile, Steve was relieved to see someone with an air of authority. The man explained, and Steve _understood_.

His job was never to be complete. He was never to be able to rest from his burdens. Instead, like Sisyphus, he was to toil endlessly. Forever saving the world.

* * *

SHIELD, SSR's successor, put Steve through his paces. Physically, he passed with flying colors, but the head doctor was another story.

It was a woman, Dr. Smith, and she had two files in front of her. One, Steve could see, contained a Polaroid of what he looked like before the serum infusion. The other, a picture clipped from a newspaper, of Steve performing in costume. He could not read upside down, however, and did not know what else they contained, other than highlighted passages.

What Steve did not know was that these were his psych profiles, culled from SSR notes and personal testimonies.

The doctor and Steve spoke at length. At first, it was easy subjects, such as "had he heard about the end of the war?" and "was he pleased?". Then, it turned to harder topics, like Steve's old friends. He had not had news of them, so Dr. Smith promised to get him access to their files, so he could see what had happened to them.

Finally, things got really hard. His breathing difficulties came up. At first, Steve wanted to lie, but he remembered his vow to get help. Even if it was some seventy-odd years old, it was still valid; Steve did not break promises, not even the ones he made to himself. He told her everything, and she asked some probing questions about what triggered the incidents.

She looked through some thick reference books, and asked Steve to clarify a few of his answers.

Calmly, she re-seated herself behind her desk and steepled her fingers.

"Steve," because he had told her to call him that, he didn't really feel like a 'Captain', not now, "I think you're showing signs of OCPD. That is, obsessive compulsive personality disorder. That means you're obsessed with perfection, and that you strive to be ultimately correct in all that you do. Does this sound like you, a little?"

Steve had to take a mental step back, and really _examine_ his answer. The doctor said nothing, and let him have a few minutes to think.

"Well, I guess. That does sound a little like me," Steve answered hesitantly.

"I'm glad you agree. Steve, having an issue like this is nothing to be ashamed of. The majority of the American population has some sort of mental health problem. I know things like this weren't looked upon kindly in your day, but that has changed. We understand things like this today."

This gives Steve something to consider, most certainly. "What are the treatment options, doctor?"

"Well, I would like you to come in and attend therapy sessions once a week. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors have been known to help... Are you open to taking medication?"

"No, ma'am. I would prefer to avoid that, if there are other options."

"I thought so. Like I said, therapy will help. And I suggest that you formulate a routine and stick to it. This should help keep the anxiety down. I _am_ going to prescribe some anxiety medication for you. Don't give me that look. You only have to take it when you have those breathing problems, as you call them. The medication will help stave off the panic attack."

"That seems...amenable."

"Good. You can schedule next week's appointment with my secretary. I'm going to put in a rush request for those files, and you should have them by the end of the week."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Steve makes his appointment, and writes down the time in his little calendar book that SHIELD had given him.

He reports to Director Fury's office, and they talk. Fury wants Steve to enroll in some classes, to get him caught up. He doesn't mention the OCPD except once. "Rogers, I'm trusting you to manage your issues. Don't let me down."

Steve doesn't want to.

On his way out, Fury wordlessly passes him a handful of file folders. They feel as though they weigh a hundred pounds, and Steve spends that evening perusing them dejectedly.

* * *

Steve quickly settled into a routine, one similar to what he was used to in the army.

He meticulously got up every morning at exactly five o'clock, and ate a granola bar and yogurt before going on a five-mile run.

He ended his run at the gym, where he drank twelve ounces of water and then lifted for thirty minutes. Another six ounces of water, and an hour of boxing later, and Steve was finished for the day.

He swung by the diner on the corner on his way home and got himself a hot breakfast, always flapjacks and two sausages. At home, he would scramble himself eggs and pour two glasses, one of orange juice and the other milk. He would eat, still in his workout clothes and all sweaty, at his kitchen table.

After he washed his dishes by hand, he would take a quick, economical five-minute shower.

After his shower, he would dress in khakis and a plaid shirt and settle on his couch to read the newspaper, slang dictionary at hand.

Once he was updated on all of the goings-on, he rode his bike to the local community college, where he was enrolled in a modern history course four days a week. Fridays he had his therapy appointments at this time, and he volunteered on the weekends.

After class, he grabbed lunch in the school's cafeteria and headed to the library to do his homework. He struggled with computers, but the librarians were always glad to help him.

This was the only deviation he allowed in his day. He planned to work up to more, gradually, but for now he stayed in the library until he was finished with what he was assigned before returning to the gym for another hour of boxing and thirty minutes of lifting.

By then, the lighting was usually perfect for sketching, so he grabbed his bag and rode to Central Park or the Met, depending on the weather.

At five, he cooked. Cooking was soothing, something he'd had to learn when he and Bucky lived on their own. The modern appliances weren't too different, and after a couple lessons from some SHIELD interns, he was quite comfortable using them.

Dinner was usually of the meat and potatoes variety, and afterwards Steve would watch a movie. When it ended, he did a hundred pushups and situps each and headed to bed.

This routine was just starting to feel comfortable. It helped him through adjusting to the changes that were, at times, overwhelmingly frustrating. Steve had only had two 'anxiety attacks', and his medicine had been close at hand both times.

* * *

Fury found him during his afternoon gym visit. Steve obediently packed a bag and reported to the rendezvous point that SHIELD had assigned him.

They took him aboard their boat, and it was awe-inspiring, but not too crazy. At least not until it turned into a plane. Steve ponied up his ten dollars and quietly retreated to his quarters.

He just needed a minute before he felt up to returning to the bridge.

* * *

Tony Stark rubbed Steve the wrong way, and they both knew it. The issue was that Steve had no respect for the man, and found it hard to just not punch him in the face. He'd read the files, knew that Stark was the polar opposite of his father. Howard had been a good man, selfless, but his _son_ was nothing at all like him.

Steve did not, _could_ not respect the man. The engineer oozed nonchalance and disrespect. And the cocky sonuvabitch knew it. His file had called it 'narcissism', a word that Steve had needed to research. He had originally thought the file too harsh, but within minutes of meeting the man, he had lamented that it was not harsh enough.

Forcing himself to put his problems/doubts/issues aside, Steve focused on the more pressing external predicaments, like the fact that the ship was under attack.

He had almost been ready to let go of that rope. It would have been relatively quick, almost even painless, but America _needed_ Steve.

Unfortunately, so did Tony Stark.

* * *

His leadership role felt comfortable, like an old shirt that had been washed over and over, and now fit just right.

The others listened to him, even Stark.

However, he hated disrespect of blatant authority, so he may have shown off a little for those police officers. (Can't say 'men', that's sexist, Steve knew now.)

Things quieted for a minute when Dr. Banner rode up. Steve had not been expecting the man. But he was relieved as hell to see him.

Things progressed in a blur of sound and instinct.

* * *

The battle was all but over, when Stark radioed in the presence of a nuclear missile. Steve was going to _rethink _his employment later.

He was desperately trying to come up with contingency plans, ignoring that little voice that screamed for him to not make the wrong choice, to be perfect. That was what Dr. Smith had told him to do, and he couldn't afford to be distracted, not now. He looked up, trying to spot the missile.

He found the damn thing almost immediately, on Stark's back. What was Stark trying to do, get them all killed?

Then he saw the strain, the effort. Stark was aiming the missile at the portal.

Steve had done some weapons research, and he knew that the guidance system on this particular one would override any re-targeting unless Stark stayed with it until the end.

How could Steve accused this man, this _hero_ of selfishness?

He had to make the judgement call, the right one, so he told Romanoff to close the portal. He had to put the lives of millions above the lives of one, and it was the _hardest_ thing he had ever done in his life. Harder than going through the serum infusion. Hell, he would do that a thousand times more if this decision wasn't left solely to him.

Steve closed his eyes and prayed like he never had before. _Please, please, pleasepleaseplease_.

A red-and-gold blur fell from the sky. Steve was just looking to Thor, to order him to retrieve the fallen man, when a green-tinged motion made him start.

The Hulk, that almost animalistic being, was catching Stark like a scene out of a King Kong movie, bringing the man down to street level, using his own body to cushion the blow of landing.

Thor ripped Stark's faceplate off, and Steve bent down. The man wasn't breathing, and Steve wanted to start chest compressions, but he couldn't, not with Stark in that suit.

_What do I do? How can I _fix _this?_

Steve was nearly frantic, about to start mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, when the Hulk _roared_.

Stark jolted back to life, and Steve sat back on his heels with a sigh of relief. Now he has a chance to make this right.

He can't stand loose ends or debts owed.

* * *

Shawarma is...interesting, but Steve is mostly too tired to move. He forces one sandwich down, knowing what happens when he doesn't eat. He doesn't speak much, only responding when spoken to, like Dr. Banner is doing, though he can't speak through all the food he is wolfing down.

When he calls the man that, however, the doctor raises his head, and looks at Steve. "Son, you can call me Bruce. Hell, you can call me whatever you want. I'm that impressed."

The assassin pair looks strangely at Bruce, but Steve smiles back, resting his head on his arms.

Thor has to help him back to the Tower, where they all crash onto the nearest flat surface they can find, exhausted. Thor somehow winds up on the dining table. Stark manages to reach a bed. Clint and Natasha stretch out on the plush carpet, side-by-side, and Bruce and Steve collapse onto the living room furniture, Steve in a chair and Bruce on the couch.

* * *

The next morning, he forgoes working out in favor of finding Stark, who does not look like he's been to sleep at all.

"Stark. Look. I need to apologize. What I said was wrong. You are a hero. Thank you."

Steve walks away before Stark can pick his jaw up off the floor, and thinks that perhaps, Stark's personality is just another mask, a way to keep himself sheltered.

Stark doesn't mention it again, but the next time they speak, he tells Steve to call him Tony.

* * *

The whole team got a slew of psychological profiles to read before they moved in with each other.

When Tony read the Cap's, specifically his dad's notes in the margin, he sat down hard. _Jesus fuck, I can't believe that he went through all that, and came out with only OCPD and mild anxiety issues._

He had a new level of respect for the man, and it showed. They were soon interacting pleasantly after a few fights involving their differing views of Howard, and their banter could often be heard echoing through the halls of Stark Tower, now Avengers' Tower.

* * *

All six of them now live in Stark Tower, and Steve is relieved to see that not one of them is unscarred. They all have issues, and they all work together to handle them.

Clint's clinging to the ceiling, currently, and Tony's crying quietly into Bruce's shirt, but Steve is content, truly content.

These are some of the best damn people in the whole world, and Steve is privileged to know them.

* * *

**Please let me know what y'all think!**


End file.
